


Over the Rainbow

by LadyReisling



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Movie Night, Musical!Bucky, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sick Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6482725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyReisling/pseuds/LadyReisling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For as long as he could remember, Steve Rogers' life had been steeped in the music of Bucky Barnes.  Steve and Bucky see The Wizard of Oz, and when Steve's under the weather, Bucky reminds him that Over the Rainbow is a nice place to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Rainbow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [water_4_willows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/water_4_willows/gifts).



> I have this head canon that Bucky Barnes is the human equivalent of an iPod with unlimited memory. To help a friend break her writer's block, I challenged her to write 100 words a day. In return, she challenged me to post this little piece of h/c flashfic that I wrote for her months ago.

For as long as he could remember, Steve Rogers’ life had been steeped in the music of Bucky Barnes. Whether it was humming to himself as he read the newspaper or whistling his way up the back stairs at the end of the workday, Bucky had a song for everything. It wasn’t that Bucky’s voice was spectacular or even good—it was actually off-key more often than not—he just couldn’t help himself. Just as Steve sometimes sketched in blank margins or the corners of napkins without thinking about it, Bucky never seemed to realize that he was, in fact, singing, or whistling, or humming aloud. The music only really stopped when Bucky was sleeping, or pulling Steve out of fights in back alleys—and God help the person who caused the music to stop. Steve might roll his eyes behind Bucky’s back, but the truth was, he loved it, and was always glad when something happened to add songs to his best friend’s repertoire. Today had done just that. 

By Steve’s way of reckoning, the day had been just about perfect. It was Bucky’s day off from work at the docks, the smog of the city had abated enough not to trouble Steve’s lungs too much, and they’d spent the late-summer afternoon at the Majestic Theatre in Brooklyn, taking in _The Wizard of Oz_. Steve remembered his mother reading the book to him when he was younger, and seeing it brought to life on the silver screen was unbelievable—a Technicolor feast for his young artist’s eye. 

Strolling home next to him in the twilight, Bucky was quietly humming the Lollipop Guild’s ditty. Steve chuckled out loud at the memory of the usually cool and collected James Buchanan Barnes shrieking in terror at the sight of the flying monkeys. Not that he’d ever remind Bucky of that fact, of course. Well, not often. 

“What’re you laughing at, punk? You were scared, too!” As always, Bucky seemed to be able to read his thoughts. 

“Was not, jerk. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you scream like a girl.”

“In your dreams, Rogers. And before you tell anyone anything, remember how many years’ worth of dirt I’ve got on you.”

Climbing the stairs to their apartment, they shared a grin. The steep ascent winded Steve a little, but he ignored the twinge in his chest. Nothing was going to get in the way of the best day he could remember in a very long time. 

Steve should have known his luck wouldn’t last. If there was a germ within fifty miles, Steve Rogers caught it. Within a week, the flu hit harder than usual. Steve knew the signs—nagging headache, tingling throat, uneasy stomach—but this time he went from fine to barely able to lift his head in record time. The world dissolved into a blur of aches, nausea, and terrifying dreams. Time might have passed, or it might not have—his sense of reality was gone. A tremendous weight sat on his chest like the house on the Witch of the East, but he lacked the strength to move it, couldn’t even draw breath to cry out against the agony. 

Thoughts and sensations were an unending cyclone, each as uncatchable as the last. He registered pain, burning fire, freezing cold in succession and all at once. His only anchor in this hazy, uncertain place was a solid presence that always seemed to be there: a source of warmth as he shivered under the weight of what felt like every blanket in Brooklyn, a reassuring cool touch as fever burned into his very core. He cracked his heavy eyelids open and tried to see it, but light seared his retinas and forced them closed again. _Mom_ , his addled mind supplied, and then he remembered— _Not Mom; Mom was gone, buried next to Dad_. The presence hummed softly, a low rumble penetrating his tangled thoughts. _Not Mom. Bucky_. 

After one particularly vicious dream, he came awake with a shout, bolting upright. The shout turned into a harsh, painful coughing fit that he couldn’t seem to shake, and that scared him even more than the dream. He doubled over, clutching the covers in his fists as he tried to get at the air, and became aware of Bucky’s hand rubbing steady circles into his back. 

“Easy, punk, it’s okay. Just breathe,” his friend murmured. He kept up a constant, soothing litany as Steve continued to fight for breath for what felt like hours. When the coughs finally died down, he eased Steve back onto the pillows and held a glass of water, helping him take a few sips. It went down his sore throat like razor blades and made his stomach cramp, but the pain helped drive some of the cobwebs out of his brain. 

Lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling as his pulse came back to what passed for normal, Steve tried to get his bearings. It was dark except for the small light in the corner, so night. Beyond that, it was impossible to tell. He tried to gauge how much time had passed, but his brain didn’t seem to want to cooperate. The room spun in lazy, vaguely sickening circles, and his head felt stuffed with congealed oatmeal. Finally, he asked: “How long?” and found his voice raspy with the rust of disuse. 

“It’s Tuesday, and you’ve been pretty much out of your mind since Thursday morning. How do you feel?” 

Steve took stock: Shirt sticking to clammy skin, whether from fever or terror or the sheer effort of getting breath into his battered lungs, it was impossible to tell. Gut churning, head pounding, chest too tight. He wanted to make some smart comment, knock that worry out of his best friend’s voice, but the only thing he could come up with was, “Awful.” 

Silence fell between them, broken only by the wheezy rattle of Steve’s breath as he tried to process five missing days of his life. Vague memories surfaced, but dream smeared with reality until he didn’t know which was which. Now, in the semidarkness, he could see that Bucky’s face was dusted with stubble and his eyes lined with dark circles. It spoke of too many cares; too much worry; days of constant vigil and nights of little or no sleep. 

“Y’look like hell, Buck…” The words caught in his throat and the rest of the sentence was drowned in more rib-cracking coughs. 

“That’s because you don’t have a mirror to see your ugly mug. Just go back to sleep, Stevie, and dream yourself over the rainbow.”

Steve wanted to protest, but his body was betraying him. Everything was heavy and blurry, leaden limbs sinking through the mattress, eyes closing against his will. His last perception before sleep pulled him under was the sound of his best friend’s voice, that strange combination of sandpaper and silk that was pure Bucky, the most comforting thing he had ever heard: “Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue, and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments are love! Also, song suggestions are welcome!


End file.
